


Ned the Dumbwaiter

by whumphoarder



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Appendicitis, Banter, Domestic Fluff, Except for Ned, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Halloween, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Iron Dad, Irondad, Major Illness, Ned Leeds is a Good Bro, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Stomach Ache, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, Whump, basically my head canon is that peter doesn't like to tell anyone he's sick, because that's what bffs are for, he'll totally complain to ned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 04:29:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16211420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whumphoarder/pseuds/whumphoarder
Summary: Peter gets horribly sick on Halloween night and his very overwhelmed Guy In The Chair attempts to take care of him. That is, until both boys find themselves in over their heads and Tony takes over.(Alternative title: Spooky Pukey)





	Ned the Dumbwaiter

“Why a pig man though?” Ned wonders.

“I don’t know, watch the show,” Peter mutters back, eyes glued on the screen. He fishes around in the bulk-size bag of candy between them on the sofa for another Kit-Kat.

Ned unwraps a Reese's cup and tosses the wrapper onto the considerable pile they have going on the coffee table. “I still think season two was the best.”

“Nah, season two wasn’t even scary,” Peter argues. “They were just in an asylum with a crazy doctor.”

“That’s why it was scary,” Ned defends. “It could totally happen.” He pops the chocolate in his mouth. “Unlike Piggy.”

Peter pours a handful of M&Ms in his mouth from the fun-size packet. “I liked the freak show season best.”

Ned snorts. “You would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Peter balks at him.

“Well, you are technically a mutant freak, aren’t you?” Ned says with a grin.

Peter whacks him with a sofa pillow. “Shut up,” he laughs.

The two of them are sprawled out on the couch of Peter’s apartment, marathoning American Horror Story while working their way through the two Costco-sized bags of candy May had left—for the trick-or-treaters, she’d reminded them multiple times. Though living in a seventh floor apartment meant their front door rarely saw much action on Halloween.

Peter is in the process of unwrapping a Twix when a knock on the apartment door is perfectly timed with a jump-scare on the screen, causing both boys to shoot about six inches off the sofa. They exchange a sheepish look before Peter pauses the episode and stands up.

“Careful,” Ned warns as Peter heads for the apartment door. “Might be Piggy.”

Peter rolls his eyes, but still peers through the peephole just to make sure before opening the door to reveal his seven year old next door neighbor.

“Trick or treat!” the kid exclaims.

“Hey Jaylon.” Peter smiles at him. But it’s instantly replaced by a look of astonishment as he takes in the kid’s outfit. “Whoa, cool costume, man!”

“I’m not Jaylon, I’m the Spider-Man from YouTube!” the little boy corrects. He’s wearing blue sweatpants and a red hoodie with a black construction paper spider safety pinned to the front. “And you’re the bad guy!”

Peter sticks his lip out in a pout. “Aw man, what did I even do?” he whines.

“I dunno,” Jaylon shrugs, still grinning. “Somethin’ bad.”

“I know what he did,” Ned calls over from the couch. “Peter ate all of the Sour Patch Kids and he knows I _love_ Sour Patch Kids.”

Peter shoots his friend a betrayed look. “ _Dude_.”

“A thief!” Jaylon exclaims, hopping up and down. He folds down his two middle fingers to his palm, mimicking the web-shooting motion, and aims his hand at the teenager’s legs. “Pow! Got you!”

“Noooo!” Peter makes a show of wobbling dramatically before letting himself fall to the ground in a heap. “I’m stuck.”

Jaylon giggles. He drops his candy bucket to the ground so he can use both hands to fire more pretend webs, making sound effects the whole time. “Now you gonna be stuck _forever_ ,” he declares.

Peter laughs. “Actually I think Spider-Man’s webs usually dissolve in a couple hours.”

“Nuh uh!” Jaylon disagrees. “ _Forever_. ‘Cause you been bad!”

“Seems fair,” Ned remarks. He steps over Peter—who is still squirming on the ground as though trying to escape—and drops four fun-size pieces of candy into the kid’s plastic jack-o'-lantern shaped bucket.

Jaylon giggles and spins around. “Bye Peter!” he says with a wave. “Bye other guy!” He leaves, slamming the door behind him.

“Dude,” Ned says when it’s just the two of them again. “That was so surreal.”

Peter is still grinning widely. “I know, right?” Ned offers him a hand and he takes it to pull himself back to standing. As he does so, a sudden cramp catches Peter off guard. He stops and inhales sharply, pressing a hand to his stomach.

Ned’s smile fades. “You okay?”

He’s been getting these weird pains on and off since the end of school. The cramp lessens after a few seconds to a dull throb. “Fine,” Peter assures, rubbing at the spot on his gut. “Probably need to lay off the candy…”

“Ugh, same,” Ned agrees. “Plus I’ve got a dentist appointment next week.”

Peter lets out a shudder as the two move back to the living room. “I just remembered that scene with the human teeth falling from the sky.”

Ned huffs out a single laugh. “This show is messed up, man.”

**X**

By the time they’ve made it through two more episodes, Peter’s becoming too distracted to pay attention to the plot. He shifts around on the sofa for what has to be the twelfth time.

From the other end of the couch, Ned groans irritably. “Oh my god, Peter. Stop moving.”

“Sorry,” Peter grunts back. He curls up on his side, letting his arms circle protectively around his aching stomach. Besides the sharp cramps that come and go, there’s a dull pain around the middle of his abdomen that’s a constant now. He lets out a quiet groan.

Ned’s eyes are still glued to the screen as another one of the home’s inhabitants is slaughtered. “What’s wrong?” he asks distractedly.

Peter grimaces at the bloody scene. Usually on screen gore isn’t something that bothers him, but tonight it’s not helping his already queasy state. “My stomach hurts,” he admits.

“Told you not to eat the three day old pizza,” Ned quips.

“Pizza doesn’t go bad after three days—you’ve got like a week, at least,” Peter argues back.

Ned scoffs. “Maybe it was the fact you ate all the Sour Patch Kids," he accuses.

“Oh let it go already,” Peter whines as his stomach cramps again. “And stop talking about food.”

Ned sounds a little more concerned now. “You’re not gonna puke, are you?”

“Nah.” Peter lets out a long exhale. “Don’t think so. Maybe. I dunno,” he mumbles.

“Well that covers all the bases.” Ned pauses the TV and flips on the lamp beside them. “Do you want some water?” His eyes dart around the room. “Or like, a trash can?”

Peter shrugs non committedly. “I don’t know, it just hurts.” He groans and rolls over to his left side, face towards the couch. “You can keep playing it—I’m listening.”

Ned hesitates. “You sure?”

“Yeah.”

Peter doesn’t sleep exactly, but he drifts in and out of awareness as the episode plays in the background. He hasn’t had a stomach ache this bad since sixth grade when he and Ned had mistaken Mrs. Leeds’ Fiber One bars for granola bars and polished off a whole box each in a single afternoon. To this day he and Ned still joke about that incident as The Night From Hell.

They make it through most of the episode before Peter bolts up from the couch and makes a dash for the bathroom. He barely manages to shut the door and is vomiting into the toilet before he can even drop to his knees. His stomach cramps sharply and he lets out an involuntary sob. He gags again, bringing up more. The pain intensifies and he whimpers.

“Uh… Peter?” Ned’s hesitant voice calls from the hall outside. “You okay, man?”

Peter answers his question with another heave, followed by a moan.

He can actually hear Ned’s grimace through his voice. “Um, okay, guess I’ll, uh, leave you to it.”

Peter’s known his best friend long enough not to misinterpret his reluctance to come closer for indifference. Ned is what May refers to as a ‘sympathetic puker’—his empathy is also his downfall. He can’t see someone vomiting without getting in on the action, and the last thing they need right now is two people blowing chunks in the one-bathroom apartment.

Peter is just going to have to ride this one out on his own.

**X**

Peter waits an extra ten minutes after he thinks he’s done before deciding it’s safe enough to leave the bathroom. He stands shakily and makes his way back to the living room where Ned is waiting for him with a pained smile, holding out a can of ginger ale.

“Feel any better?” Ned asks hopefully.

Peter takes the can with one hand and makes a so-so gesture with the other. He carefully lowers himself onto the corner of the couch and curls up against the armrest. The pain flares as he lifts his legs up to tuck them under him, but releases a bit when he holds still again.

“Okay, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news,” Ned says. “And then I’ve got good news and bad news again.”

Peter hugs a pillow to his aching stomach. “Hit me.”

“Okay. First good news is that I raided all the cabinets in your kitchen and found some Pepto.”

“There is a God,” Peter mumbles.

“Bad news is that the bottle says it expired in April.”

Peter lifts his head slightly. “Maybe it’s still okay?” he hopes.

“...April of 2013,” Ned clarifies.

Peter lets out a long sigh. “I take it back. I’m an atheist.”

“But, good news again,” Ned goes on, “you have the most awesome best friend ever and so while you were busy throwing up your kidneys, I walked down to 7-11.” He reaches into a plastic bag and pulls out a bright pink bottle. “Feast your eyes on the most expensive eight ounces of Pepto Bismol known to man.”

Despite feeling like total shit, Peter gives a half-laugh. “How much?”

“Like twelve dollars. Plus tax.”

“Damn.”

Ned shrugs, handing over the bottle. “Supply and demand. If you’re selling stomach medicine at eleven o’clock on a holiday night, you can pretty much make the price whatever you want.”

Peter hums in response. He opens the bottle and swallows a capful, grimacing at the chalky taste.

Ned sits back down on the couch and picks up the remote. “Is this show too gross right now? Wanna watch something else?” he offers.

“I don’t care,” Peter mutters. Another sharp pain hits his stomach and he squeezes his eyes together tightly until it fades.

Ned gives his friend a worried look. “You really don’t feel good, huh?”

Peter shakes his head miserably.

Ned looks out of his depth. “I could call my mom…?”

“No, don’t,” Peter protests. “It’s just a stomach ache. Besides, she’ll make me drink that nasty herbal tea from her chiropractor again.”

Ned snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, she totally will,” he agrees. “It’s licorice root and fennel, I think. Kinda helps though.”

Peter shudders. “There is no such thing as a stomach ache bad enough to make me drink that crap again.”

**X**

“I lied,” Peter moans. “I would drink the tea.”

They barely made it fifteen minutes into the next episode before Peter is once again hunched in front of the toilet, coughing up bubblegum pink-tinged strings of bile. The pain is back with a vengeance now.

“Just imagine that I’m patting your back soothingly,” Ned says from outside the closed door. He makes a soft clapping noise. “There, there, Peter. There, there.”

“I feel the love,” Peter deadpans. He rests his forehead on the toilet rim, eyes closed, and takes a few breaths. Another cramp hits and he’s forced to pull himself up for yet another round.

“Uh, I’ll be back in a bit,” Ned says.

Peter grunts in acknowledgement.

Between rounds of heaving he considers calling Aunt May. Ever since his parents died, she’s always been there when he was sick to brush his curls out of his face and whisper soothing words at him. But she’s in Atlanta at the moment doing four days of corporate training for her new position. She had initially been hesitant to leave Peter alone—especially given that it would be over Halloween—but Peter had assured her that he would be fine.

He’s sixteen years old; he’s not about to call his aunt crying over a tummy ache. No matter how much he may be tempted to.

A few minutes later, he hears a knock on the door. “Peter?” Ned’s voice asks. “Still with me?”

Peter gives a thumbs up before remembering that his friend can’t see him. “Yeah,” he croaks.

The door cracks open and Ned’s hand appears to slide in a glass of water, a bottle of Gatorade, and a sleeve of Saltine crackers on the tile. He retracts the hand and the door shuts again.

Peter scoffs at him. “You’re like a dumbwaiter.”

“Excuse me, I just spent all twenty of the dollars I earned last week from babysitting my little cousins—who are currently going through their ‘Baby Shark, doo doo, doo doo doo doo’ phase, I might add—on sick people supplies. And now you’re insulting me?”

“No, a _dumbwaiter_ ,” Peter groans. “You know, the little elevator thing they used to put inside people’s homes to carry stuff between floors. You just open the door and your stuff is there.”

There’s a beat. “Oh.”

“Idiot,” Peter mutters. But then his stomach turns and he’s scrambling to get back to the toilet before retching again. He’s whimpering in pain by the time he’s finished.

“That was karma,” Ned quips.

“I’m flipping you off right now,” Peter moans.

(He’s not, actually.)

**X**

“How do you feel?” Ned’s voice asks.

“Like shit,” Peter croaks back. He’s laying atop the nest of blankets and pillows Ned has slid through the door one by one over the last hour. He’s barely even nauseous anymore—his stomach just hurts like hell—but the pain is worse when he moves so he doesn’t bother.

“Be more specific. What would you say your most prominent symptom is?”

Peter frowns. “Pain?” His inflection makes it sound like a question, but it’s definitely not. The pain has become almost a part of him now. Peter _is_ pain.

“And would you describe that pain as burning, throbbing, aching, stabbing, twisting, cramping, shooting, nagging—”

Peter cuts him off. “When did you get your medical license exactly?”

“Any diarrhea?”

“ _Oh my god,_ Ned,” Peter groans.

“Was that a yes? I’m taking that as a yes.”

“It’s a shut up and let me die in peace.”

The door cracks open again and Ned slides a thermometer in. “I need to know if your temperature is above or below 100.5,” he states.

“Why?”

“Because your Guy In The Chair has become your Guy On The Hallway Floor, and WebMD wants to know,” he retorts. “Top contenders so far are food poisoning, appendicitis, and—my personal favorite—something called an intestinal ischemia. Basically something blocks the blood supply and part of your intestine just like, _dies_. Like a heart attack or stroke but it’s in your gut.” Peter can hear the awe in his friend’s voice; he’s a science nerd through and through.

“Sounds dramatic,” Peter remarks.

“That or there’s always cancer,” Ned throws in.

“Thanks, man.”

“Also ectopic pregnancy. But unless there’s something you’re not telling me…” he trails off.

Peter sighs. “What would I ever do without you?”

**X**

Peter wakes to the sound of someone crying. It’s a heartbreaking noise—mostly whimpers interspersed with choked sobs. He doesn’t remember having gone to bed but he must have because he’s in his room now, curled up on the bottom bunk mattress.

But, god, why does his stomach hurt so much? Peter’s been stabbed before—an unfortunate occupational hazard of being a crime-fighting vigilante. This is much worse.

There’s another sob. It’s enough to kick Peter’s distracted brain back into action. His friend must be having a nightmare, he concludes.

“Ned...” Peter moans.

There’s no response, except for more whimpers. Peter feels hot—too hot. He pounds his hands weakly at the top bunk frame. “Ned,” he tries louder. “Wake u-up. You gotta w-wake up.” His breath hitches.

The lamp flips on and light floods his senses.

“Peter? What’s wrong?” Ned’s down the ladder immediately and starts looking him over in concern.

Peter’s confused. “You were cr-crying,” he chokes out. But even as he says it he knows it’s wrong.

“I wasn’t.” Ned looks scared now. “ _You_ are.”

Peter wipes a hand across his face and is surprised to find it’s wet. His pillow is wet too. Nothing makes sense. In his disoriented state, he decides to say the one thing that he’s sure of:

“I don’t feel good.”

Saying the words out loud seems to solidify them and give them power. The pain is excruciating now—radiating from his belly button to his right side. Peter cradles his stomach as tears slide down his cheeks. This is bad and he knows it. “It really _hurts_ ,” he sobs.

Ned blanches. “That’s it—I’m calling my mom. You need help.”

Peter shakes his head. He’s sweating and his curls are sticking to his forehead. “No…” he moans. “She’ll take me to the h-hospital. Can’t g-go there.”

“Hospital?” Ned looks completely panicked now. “Should I be calling an ambulance?!”

“No… Can’t go there,” Peter insists. “Can’t know. I have sp-spider blood.”

A look of understanding dawns over Ned. “Shit, I forgot. Okay, okay. Don’t worry, Peter,” he says quickly. “I’m gonna think of something. I’m gonna get someone.”

“‘Kay.”

That’s the last thing Peter says before he passes out.

**X**

When Peter wakes again, he’s not in his room anymore. There’s the familiar beeping sound of a heart monitor, accompanied by the weird sensations of an oxygen cannula tickling his nose and fluids flowing through an IV into the crook of his elbow. Hospital, he concludes.

But wait—he can’t be in a hospital.

He snaps his eyes open and tries to sit up quickly but is instantly halted by a jolt of pain in his abdomen. A cry escapes his lips before he can stop it.

“Whoa, whoa, hey, no.” Tony has a hand on his chest, pushing him back to the mattress. “Stitches, kid. Don’t rip ‘em.”

“M’str St’rk?” Peter rasps. His throat feels like sandpaper.

“In the flesh.” He picks up a plastic cup from the table next to the bed and holds the straw to Peter’s lips. “Just a couple sips, okay? Don’t want it coming back up.”

Peter swallows a few mouthfuls of water. “I’m at the compound?” he croaks.

Tony nods. “Medbay. We had to airlift you by helicopter.”

Peter’s eyes go wide. “Seriously? Aw man, the one time I get to ride in a helicopter and I can’t even remember it,” he complains.

“Yeah, no, this isn’t funny, kid,” Tony says seriously. “I had to wake up at 3:45 this morning to a frantic call from a high schooler babbling something about WebMD and strokes and intestinal death.”

“Is that really what I had?” Peter asks in astonishment.

Tony scoffs. “No, you had a ruptured appendix.”

“Oh. Bummer.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “Yeah, so disappointing. Bruce thinks you can thank that super metabolism of yours for speeding up the process—usually takes two or three days to get to that point. The emergency surgery was a real bore as well. The surgeon only lost you on the table for like thirty seconds, tops. Totally lame.”

It’s said with a sarcastic scowl but Peter can see the fear lingering in his mentor’s eyes. “I called your aunt to give her an update and found out she didn’t even know you were _sick_ ,” Tony goes on. “She’s on a flight back now as we speak.”

“Sorry.” Peter’s not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for, but it seems to be the thing to do. “Is Ned here?”

Tony jerks his head to the side and Peter lets his gaze follow the movement. A few beds down, his best friend is lying passed out on a mattress, snoring softly.

“You really freaked him out,” Tony says, a little quieter. “He crashed about four minutes after being told you got out of surgery and has been out ever since.” He smirks. “Smart kid though—I’ll give him that. After Happy failed to answer his phone calls, he hacked into your suit to make Karen contact me directly.”

Peter can’t help but crack a smile—it’s too bad Ned’s not awake to hear _Tony Freaking Stark_ complimenting him. Then again if he was, he would probably do something embarrassing to ruin the moment. Maybe it’s best this way.

“But that was Ned,” Tony says, crossing his arms over his chest. “ _You_ could have called someone earlier, you know. Didn’t have to wait until you were unconscious and writhing in pain to tell an adult.”

Peter looks sheepish. “I just thought it was a stomach ache. I’ve had worse.”

Tony raises his eyebrows at him skeptically.

“Well, up until the end at least,” Peter amends. “Have you ever eaten five Fiber One chewy bars in one night, Mr. Stark?” he challenges. “Now _that_ is pain.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “You ever heard that story about the boy who cried wolf?” he asks.

“Yeah.” Peter nods. “May used to read it to me. His name was Peter too."

“Well you’re the opposite of him,” Tony declares. “You had a pack of wolves attack and you barely cried ‘hamster’.”

Peter huffs out a short laugh. “Whoops.”

“Yeah, whoops is right…” Tony mutters, running a hand over his face exasperatedly. “And now that your friend is here, I’ve got an overprotective Filipina lady calling me every ten minutes to prescribe essential oils and obscure herbs. What the hell is turmeric paste?”

Peter shrugs. Exhaustion is overtaking him now and he yawns.

Tony shakes his head slowly. “Get some rest, kid.” To the AI, he orders “FRIDAY, go ahead and call Midtown and let them know both of my interns will be out of school today.”

Peter wrinkles his brow. “Both interns?”

“Yeah, the one who can stick to walls and stop a bus with his bare hands and the one I just hired because, unlike the first, he’s got a single shred of common sense.”

Peter grins weakly. “Ned is gonna piss himself...” he mumbles as he drifts off.

**Author's Note:**

> Every time you leave a comment, I get a stupid grin on my face for like twenty minutes solid <33
> 
> If you enjoyed the Ned & Peter dynamic here, you might also like: [Poison Apple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16525016/chapters/38708822)!


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